A Theologian In Bed
by Thistle of Liberty
Summary: Athos and Aramis in bed, the former reflecting on the latter. Warning: This is slash and depicts two men in bed with strong implications as to what they might be doing there. But nothing explicit.


_Warning: This is slash! And I don't own'em._

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My hands clutch his lean body, pull him closer. His slender limbs shine with perspiration and his breathing is laboured as if after running. A low moan escapes him as I let my finger travel down his spine. His skin is silk under my roughened digits and for once I wish I followed his advice on manicure, only to feel the perfection of his well groomed exterior more completely. My unkempt hands do not seem to bother him this time, though. He breathes out my name with ill-suppressed excitement. Our bodies, so close that I can feel his heartbeat, move in unison, barely covered by the thin sheets of my bed. A stray lock of hair tumbles down his smooth forehead, brushing against his cheek bone and tickling the corner of his mouth. I move one of my hands from their tight entrapment of his seemingly so frail figure to tuck the black curl safely behind his ear. My palm meets his flushed cheek and with an unusual craving to be stroked he nuzzles in closer to it. To oblige him my hand finds its way to the base of his neck were it entangles itself in the cascade of dark hair. With a tenderness that only he can elicit from me I caress his neck with eager fingers. My finger scrape against the chain attached to the crucifix dangling from his neck. It annoys me, for some reason.

With a suddenness than brings an exclamation to his lips I pull the startled theologian closer, pressing him so tightly to my body that I can hardly make out where I end and he starts. He relents willingly to my fierce kiss and presses even closer, independently of my searching hands on his back. Breaking the kiss he makes a sound, which might be the two syllables forming my name or something else entirely, before bending in again to transfer his attentions to the sensitive skin on my throat. I allow him to tease me with the swiftness of his tongue and the sharpness of his teeth, simply because it pleases him. His simple silver crucifix grates across my bare chest, reminding me that he is only mine for a time. If envy is a deadly sin; what is envy of God? For I do envy God. Because he possesses the unlimited affection of my Aramis. I know, have always known, that one day he will leave my arms to fully embrace his other, greater, love. But at the moment, he is mine. My Aramis, my sanctuary. His beauty, his elegance, his wit and his way of drawing his blade with the arrogant and careless skill which only he possesses. He has captivated me since the first time I looked into those black eyes.

At first I refused to acknowledge it. That this child could bring me out of the shell I had built so carefully around myself. That he could conquer my devotions and have me feel such love I had thought was forever lost to me. But slowly, as his soft speech and handsome face took up more and more of my thoughts, I began to realize that I had, in spite of the innumerable promises I had made myself during the even more numerous sleepless nights, fallen in love. And not with just anyone. With my friend, my brother in arms, my fellow musketeer. A future priest, an infamous seducer of women, one of the most desirable men in Paris. Yet he had loved me back. Our first kiss, the memory dimmed by too much wine, had been a desperate scramble for closeness. His response to my uncertain approach had been more eager than I had dared hope and after seconds our hands had been grasping each other's bodies with an irrepressible desire to explore every inch of the other. After that it progressed. Until it reached the point where I knew that I would never love another quite the way I love him.

But for Aramis there will always be a love greater than that for me. God. It would be presumptuous to think that I could ever compete with God for Aramis's affections. And yet I always feel the sting when his crucifix, his Bible or a quote reminds me that he will leave me one day. It drives me mad to know that, in even the most passionate embraces, part of him belongs to God. And yet; how could I refuse him that? How could I refuse him the comfort of having something eternal watching over him? I cannot, is the simple answer. The day he finally decides to leave me and join the church, I will not be able to ask him to remain. One day, I will be on my own again. But not now. Now, he is mine. In soul as well as body. His body is in my arms and his soft mouth is on mine. His hair tumbling down his back in unruly waves, his black eyes intently focused on my face, his tense arms as they hold him up from the mattress. He is beautiful and he knows it. Vain, many would say. Not I though, never I. There is no vanity in conserving perfection. It would be arrogance to allow those hands to deteriorate, those curls to tangle, those teeth to rot or those limbs to lose their youthful slenderness.

His hands in my hair bring me out of my reverie. His face is just above mine, almost nose to nose, and his lips are slightly parted, still reddened from our rough kiss. He looks down at me with serious eyes, as if trying to decide how to get even closer. I look back at him, meeting his gaze quite steadily. He once told me, in a poetic mood, that he sometimes feared he would drown in my eyes. It was a compliment, and I accepted it as such, but it was, in all its innocence, a reminder of my sins. My eyes, a passage into the tormented depths of my soul, are enough for any man to drown in, but not in a way that would be seen as a compliment. But Aramis has never believed in the darkness within me. He does not really believe in darkness at all. In that aspect he is very naive, believing that God's grace can be extended to everyone. I have told him so on numerous occasions, but he only protests and explains that God's greatness is such that it knows no limits. And I tell him that perhaps His ability to forgive is infinite, but His will to forgive certainly is not. We leave it at that, usually, for to continue would lead both of us down paths we would prefer not to travel; I because it would lead to my past sins and he because it would place him face to face with the very darkness he does not want to believe in.

"I really do love you", he says softly. His voice brings a smile to my lips. He has often complained that I always smile when he says these things, telling me that I do not take him seriously. I do, though, very much so. It is just that it always comes as something of a pleasant surprise when he speaks of love. For a long while I was afraid that I was just yet another lover to him, that our nights together and our long talks were just another distraction. Every time he professes his love he kills a little bit of that doubt. That is the reason I smile.

"I love you too, Aramis", I say. He needs to hear those words quite as often as I, if not more often. For all of his cold demeanour he is as insecure of his own worth as any child. When d'Artagnan first joined us he was jealous. Jealous of the attention I bestowed upon the young Gascon, jealous of the time I spent with him and jealous of the affection I gave him. It was fetching, really, to see him glare daggers at the youth who, of course, did not understand this animosity at all. I spoke to him, explained that the Gascon was hardly more than a child and that he would never be to me what Aramis was. He let himself be soothed by that, for he was already somewhat taken in by the rash youth, and the two's friendship flourished. Not that Aramis never exhibits jealousy toward d'Artagnan anymore, but at least he is discreet about it, and the boy's hero worship of me amuses him in an, to me, incomprehensible manner.

"You promise?" he asks, quite serenely. No joke can be detected in his tone, and in his eyes there is nothing but genuine inquiry. I fight the urge to laugh momentarily. He cannot stand being laughed at, even if only done in love. He is sensitive to that, very thin skinned. Always ready to draw his blade anywhere against anyone if he thought they were laughing at him. Not that it happens often; he is far too much the world weary chevalier to amuse anyone. And far too skilled with his blade, of course.

"I promise", I assure him. A brief smile of contentment flicks across his face and he lies back down, nuzzling up next to me. It appears he has suddenly grown bored with our kisses and touches. Always impatient, always moving on to the next thing. It is trying, sometimes. When he paces in my room, waiting for our friends to turn up, when he sits in the captain's antechamber, tapping long, delicate fingers against anything in reach or when his opponent in a forthcoming duel is late and he twists his gloves nervously, as if trying to keep his energy in check.

"Do you want to hear a poem?" he asks suddenly. I raise an eyebrow, an immediate reflex, and regard him silently for a moment. He has a sweet smile on his face, not entirely covering the mischief glistening in his eyes. He is clearly enjoying this, for some reason I cannot really fathom. But poetry is after all a keen interest of his. I asked him why he liked it so once. He looked at me silently for a long time before opening his mouth to answer. "I need to put words on things", he had explained. "This world... it is so fleeting. I am never sure it is not all a joke. Putting it in words makes it more real and it helps me... understand. You know, understand why I feel the way I do." To tell the truth I was not at all sure I understood. I still am not. Words are not any comfort to me. Rather, they annoy me. They are adaptable little things, always ready to be employed for any purpose imaginable. It is just the small matter of knowing how to use them. They can soothe and comfort, but they can cut through your soul more painfully than cold steel as well. I have never learned to use them for anything but getting my point across. Aramis, on the other hand, plays with them as if they were old friends, sometimes caught up in them for hours on end. I should not be surprised by the trace of ire it awakens in me; I am jealous of God, why not of words?

"Please", I reply and gesture invitingly. He props himself up on his elbow and clears his throat, as if this is a lecture on theology and not a poem recited to a lover. He really ought to be kept in the church. Second to condemning Galilei, letting Aramis leave is one of the church's greatest mistakes. Not that I mind. But in a way it irks me a little, to know that he is playing around in the musketeers when he could be doing so many other, much greater, things. I do not tell him that, of course. I can imagine how it would anger him to have his choices questioned, even though he himself does it all the time. So I keep quiet and watch him growing restless with the monotonous life of musketeer-Paris, waiting in the background to catch him if he decides to fend of boredom in some especially innovative way. Something which also annoys him.

"Fingers stroke  
your writhing body  
Heated lips  
engage your mouth  
My body  
presses close to yours  
And I know  
that I am yours"

I feel a tinge of heat mounting my face. Aramis certainly knows how to use words to fit his purposes. On the other hand he is quite adept at making most things fit his purposes. From a literary viewpoint the poem is not particularly good, but I have no intention of acting the literary critic at the moment. Aramis loves playing and this poem is just a part of his latest game and thus nothing to look at too seriously. He looks at me with twinkling eyes, a smile playing with his delicately sculpted lips.

"Well?" he says and raises his eye brows. "What do you think? Is it good enough to send to my publicist?"

"Aramis..." I admonish lightly, not really annoyed at all. He opens his eyes wide in a rather childish imitation of innocence.

"Did you not like it?" he asks and gives me an offended look. For God's sake, the man is impossible! Not that I mind much. I pat his cheek condescendingly and smile at him.

"It was very nice", I tell him. "Now kiss me."

He rolls his eyes and throws up a hand in the air with feigned exasperation, as if silently complaining to some higher power about my lack of interest. But he does kiss me.

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_A/N: This is what I ended up writing when trying to do a sweet erotic-ish fic... It's just impossible to keep it light-hearted with Athos in it, isn't it? _

_Thank you for reading and please leave a review. _


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